by Deb Marlowe
“Enemy,” she interrupted. “One. Marstoke. Malvi must be working for him. Why else would she also be asking questions about me? The real me, I mean.”
That gave him pause. “That is unfortunate. I hope you are wrong. I know Marstoke is not to be trusted, but—”
“Not to be trusted?” she scoffed. “The man is . . . twisted, Rhys. Broken.”
“And you know this because Hestia told you?” Furrows plowed across his brow as pain bloomed behind his eyes. His hands fisted and she saw his knuckles whiten. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but you cannot believe all that my mother says.”
Color crept into his face and she turned away to give him a moment. From the taproom came an incongruous swell of laughter.
“I should think that you would know me better by now,” she answered quietly. “Do you think that I would make my life’s choices based on second hand information? Gossip?” Fuming, she took a step away before she said anything else. She was both reluctant to reveal any more and resentful that he was making it necessary.
“No.” It emerged hoarsely. “You wouldn’t. Any more than I would. I only refer to the pain Hestia caused me—and those I love—directly. Through her own words and actions.”
Frustration tore at her. She longed to defend her friend and mentor, to demand to know what caused the resentment that simmered inside of him. But she’d promised. Voluntarily agreed not to discuss Hestia.
Seconds passed—and then she blinked.
She’d made no such promise concerning Marstoke.
But did she want to tell Rhys more? Let him in further than she already had? Already the boundaries were blurring—at least for her. This far and no further. He appeared to be happily secure on his side of the line.
She whirled around and their gazes locked. The awareness, the hope between them felt so fragile, it seemed less sturdy than a soap bubble.
But it was there—and she was not ready to give up on it.
“I’m speaking from personal experience as well,” she said softly. “I met Marstoke first, long before I met Hestia.”
Alarm flared suddenly in his face. “How?” It was a demand, born of fear.
She shook her head. “Hatch worked for him, for a time.”
His shoulders fell in relief.
“Looking back now, I can see why she was drawn into his games. She was just exactly the type that he likes to recruit for his various strategies. Restless and resentful. Ambitious. Determined to take what fate failed to bestow—so similar to those younger sons he endlessly attempts to convert into lackeys.” She raised a brow. “It’s a description that fits Malvi as well, isn’t it?”
He was honest enough to admit it with a twitch of his lips—and stubborn enough not to say it out loud.
“Damnation,” he muttered after a moment. “You may well be right.” He threw his hands in the air.
“But why would he send a girl after you? Why not just invite you to meet with him?”
“Invite? The man doesn’t know how to do anything so polite. He’s more likely to send a summons.”
“Then why the subterfuge instead of a summons?”
“Because I wouldn’t answer an invitation or a summons,” he said with a shrug.
Why not? She wished she knew.
“In any case, I do not care. Let Malvi lurk and ask her questions and make her reports.” He stood rigid now. “What will she say? Surely nothing so different from what you will report to Hestia.”
He threw it out there—a gauntlet wrapped in simple words.
There was not a chance in a thousand that she wouldn’t pick it up.
Stiff-legged, she marched up to him. Stood directly before him—an unyielding monument to male stupidity—and met him gaze for gaze.
“First,” she said, low, slow and clear. “Let me say that I am as nervous for Malvi as I am for you. Marstoke is careless with his minions and deliberately cruel when they fail him. Second, I could tell you about the pain I’ve seen that man deliver, the perversions he has perpetuated out of sheer spite or curiosity or boredom. I could tell you how even innocent facts become weapons in his grip and innocent people become pawns or victims.”
She breathed deeply. “Third, I could talk for hours—days—about Hestia Wright and how she is his shining opposite. About the good and the relief and the justice she brings to this world. But I’ll say only this one thing.” Stepping close she met his gaze and tried to ignore the growing buzz of anticipation growing between them. “Hestia has no idea that I am here.”
Something in him relaxed, just the most infinitesimal bit. “Is that true?” It came out in a cracked whisper that told her just how much it meant.
And hope surged. Foolish, treacherous, tempting hope. Because she knew suddenly that she had been a fool. This far and no further. So foolish to think that she could draw that line and not cross it. A fool to think that perhaps he would.
Except—he might have been tempted, too.
And she knew—she would have to cross it. How could she convince him that life without love was wasted—if she would not risk it herself?
“It’s true. But I’ll say no more. Because I promised you, on pain of being sent away, not to discuss it.” Drawing a deep breath, she let it out on a whisper. “And I am not ready to go.”
His gaze softened. The tension between them spiraled—but they could do nothing about it. She was still dressed as a boy and they stood in full view of the inn’s back windows.
She jumped a little when he bent at the waist and put his face close to hers. “Get yourself up to my studio,” he said in a voice that sounded low and full of promises. He pointed with one long arm. “We’ll finish this conversation there, once I’m done here.”
She stalled a moment, considering.
He raised a brow.
And with a nod, she scampered off. Before she entered the inn, she paused to look back, saw him stacking logs steadily, as if the world had not just shifted beneath their feet.
She failed to see the figure crouched in the nearby shadows. Caradec missed it as well, when he’d completed his task and followed eagerly after her. Watching him go, it stood silently for a moment, then slipped away.
Chapter Sixteen
He began to paint me. Not full portraits, of course. But the drape of a hand holding a rose, a bared shoulder, the graceful shape of a naked back.
--from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright
Her heart pounded as loudly as her feet on the stairs, and heat bloomed inside her as Francis made her way into the studio. She’d scarcely been alone in here—no more than a minute or two since Caradec had started painting her.
For an instant she gazed at the covered portrait, tempted to sneak a peek at it. But only for an instant. It was Rhys’s work, his creation. She would abide by his wishes.
Crossing over to the bed, she contemplated it—and her own wishes. Was she going to do this? She couldn’t pass it off as a selfless act, not even to herself. He’d won her over—made her want him—long ago. And now her heart was thumping and her blood was singing—
She stopped—because she was still dressed like a street urchin.
No. Not like this. Hurrying, she removed the wig and shook out her curls with a sigh of relief. Looking down, she sighed. It wasn’t enough. But she didn’t have any of her female garments with her. Anything would be better, though. Even . . . nothing? She shook her head. She wasn’t that brazen. So she shuffled through his drawers, looking for a shirt.
The short lace at the edge of his sleeves dangled far past her fingers. The hem hung past her knees. But at least she felt like a girl.
A nerve-wracked girl who didn’t know what to do with herself.
She paced for a moment, then positioned herself in the middle of the bed. But that felt . . . entirely wrong. She scrambled out, wrung her hands, perched on the edge of the mattress—and froze when the door opened and Caradec paused on the threshold.
“Good Lord, Franci
s,” he said dumbly.
She sprang up and sat back down, fingering the edge of his shirt. “I’m sorry. I’d hoped you wouldn’t mind. I just wanted to look . . .” She paused, her words failing and her heart full.
“You look exquisite,” he said firmly, before entering and shutting the door. For several long moments they stared at each other across the room.
He’d washed somewhere. His hair and collar were damp and his hands and face were clean. “Aren’t you going to come in?” she asked, after some time had passed.
“I can’t.” The words came out strangled.
“Why not?”
“I want to latch the door, to keep anyone from coming in—but I’m afraid to spook you.”
She pursed her lips, touched. “Go ahead. I won’t spook. I promise,” she added, when he hesitated.
He secured the door and turned back—but kept his position.
“Rhys?” she whispered, her nerves screaming.
“I . . . I could use a bit of guidance here, Francis,” he said hoarsely.
She straightened. “Oh, dear. Then we are in trouble.”
He winced. “Not that way.” He shrugged. “You have the reins. I made that promise and I intend to keep it. I’ll stop when you ask, even if it kills me. But I would like some idea of how far you intend this to go—so I can prepare myself.”
She blinked. “I’m sure I wish I could help, but . . . I’ve never ventured down this particular path. I’m not even sure how many steps there are.”
“That’s no help at all,” he groaned.
Her heart sank. “I’m sorry. If you’d rather not—”
She got no further before he’d crossed the room, swung her up and into his arms and around as if she were but a babe. With a gasp of shock she wrapped her arms around his neck and then he was kissing her softly, soundly and with great enthusiasm. “I assure you,” he said eventually. “There is nothing I’d rather do.”
She laughed. “Me either.”
Setting her down, he took her former spot on the edge of the bed and pulled her into his lap. “I’m honored to be chosen for your first . . . encounter,” he told her. “I vow, it will all go just as you wish.”
He meant it. Likely he had the skill to make her want exactly what he wanted—but she trusted him.
“Were you nervous, your first time?” she asked suddenly.
“Hell, yes.” He laughed. “But my nerves were as nothing next to my excitement—and my enthusiasm.”
An utterly relatable thought. But then a dark idea intruded. “Who was your first? She wasn’t a . . . prostitute?”
“No!” She rather thought she’d startled the answer out of him. “She was a dairy maid. Though on second thought, she might have had cause to wish I’d been to see a . . . professional first, to teach me a thing or two.” He grinned, then grew more serious as he searched her expression. “Were you wondering if I’ve ever been on your side of this situation? Well, the answer is yes. Although that first time was just a quick job against the side of the barn, I did eventually spend time with someone who thought she could show me a few lovely things.” He raised a brow. “Nor did I have to pay her.”
“The first time I saw a pair having at it, they were standing up, too, in an alley in the stews. I thought that’s how it was done, for the longest time.” She gave a short laugh. “Funny to think I grew up in a bawdy house, and never saw a thing—until I was let loose in the city.”
“It’s not funny—but it is unique.” Bending down, he pressed his mouth to hers and kissed her softly. Gently he brushed her lips. It felt like the slide of silk against bare skin. “Just like you. There is no one like you, Francis. No one as lovely and quick, as endearing and amusing. I am honored to be given a role in your introduction to things . . . physical.”
He was so generous, so giving. She knew she’d made the right choice. He would make a fabulous first lover. And she would do her damndest to show him that intimacy—real intimacy—would only make this, and life in general, even better.
She looped her arms around his neck and loosed the damp ribbon holding his hair. They both sighed when she ran her fingers through his thick locks. “I do love your hair,” she told him.
“And I’m still surprised by it.”
“Don’t be.” She grinned. “As you are fond of saying, it’s unique.”
Suddenly they were kissing again. It felt more urgent this time, almost desperate, and he quickly claimed her with his tongue. He tasted of wine and smelled of soap and the faintest lingering of sweat—and that wasn’t unpleasant at all. And the ferocity of his kiss, the clear signal that he wanted her as much as she did him—it made her tremble.
“Are you all right?” He pulled back, instantly solicitous, but whatever he saw in her face—gladness, joy, potent desire—sent his warm mouth to savage hers again.
The neck of his shirt hung loose and open at her throat—and he took full advantage of it. Pressing it aside, he easily bared a breast. His broad thumb rubbed the other through the linen. Her eyelids dropped. A rush of excitement flooded her as he closed his lips over the exposed nipple. Saints, but his mouth was hot. He teased her with the tip of his tongue, suckled, and flicked the hard pebble until she was squirming in his lap.
It felt so good, made her so . . . excited . . . that she let it go on for a while. But eventually she grew impatient.
“Rhys,” she said. She had to repeat his name. “Rhys! You have far more clothes on than I do.”
“We can’t have that.” He drew back. “Easily fixed, though.” He leaned back and wiggled out of his coat, but she reached for the buttons on his waistcoat before he could. Deliberately, she released one after the other, stretching it out and grinning when he impatiently tore it off and tossed it.
She helped him with the shirt beneath, and then she sighed in pleasure and indulged herself, running her hands all over him, exploring his broad, masculine bounty. Such shoulders! And a fascinatingly wide chest, just lightly covered in hair that felt rough against her fingers. And a narrow waist with a darker line of hair leading . . . down.
She grew a little flustered. Unsure. But Rhys sensed it and kissed her again, then lifted her and eased her back onto the bed. With hands and sweet whispers he urged her to scoot back, until they were both stretched out upon the mattress—and she was completely distracted by the taut muscles of his arms and torso as he braced himself beside her.
She ran light fingers down one arm and up again—and delighted in the shiver that ran through him. She was feeling so many new and overwhelming things . . . it felt good and right that she should be able to affect him as well.
He pressed her into the bed when he leaned down to kiss her with slow heat and rich passion. Their tongues danced and their hands slid over each other, touching and teasing blood and heat right to the skin’s surface.
So large. He loomed over her. It was daunting—and exciting. She felt small, but not frail. And also utterly safe and protected.
Hot and wet, his lips traced a path down her neck and on to her breasts. Soon enough she was arching, pressing her shoulders back, silently begging for more as he found her taut nipple, flicked it with his tongue and captured it with his teeth.
She never wanted him to stop.
And yet, she wanted more.
Suddenly he stopped, drawing back from her. With a whimper of protest, she reached for him.
“Perhaps we should stop here.”
“Why?” she gasped.
He groaned. “Because you are a temptress, Francis. Because you are everything sweetly, wildly desirable. Because if we go further, I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop at all.”
She sank back. This was it, then. Her moment to decide.
Except that there was no decision. Not truly. What was she to do? Go this far with Caradec and find someone else to finish it, some time off in the future? Mind and body revolted at the thought.
Of their own volition, her arms reached for him, pulled him close
again.
“Francis,” he said with warning clear in his tone. “Be mindful of what you are doing.”
“I am mindful,” she said, a little cranky. “I’m absolute aware. Although you’ll have to accept it without the wrapping and the bow, I am giving you my virginity.”
His breath hitched. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
He kissed her, pleasure and pride aglow in his expression. “Then no bow is needed.” He tugged at the shirt she wore. “And let’s get rid of this wrapping.”
Her fingers clutched the linen, but she forced them to relax and allow Rhys to maneuver the shirt over her head. When it was off, he sat back, still for a moment, and gazed at her in wonder. “You are so very lovely.”
She blushed, more at the compliment than at her nakedness. “There’s no need for you to grin like a boy at Christmas.”
“On the contrary, there is every need—and I couldn’t help it, in any case. Your trust is the greatest gift I’ve ever received.”
Her insides turned to a puddle and she reached for him once more.
He scooped her up and hugged her close and as his mouth claimed her again, his fingers were moving between them, moving down, down, and she gasped as he parted the warm, wet, private folds of her sex.
“Mmmm.” Magic. He created it with those fingers as he explored her. All of her focus was narrowed to that feeling of silken paradise. All of it . . . except for one nagging bit.
“Wait,” she demanded.
Rhys groaned. “Francis.”
But she reached out and tugged at the waistband of his breeches. “Take these off. It’s only fair,” she insisted. With familiarity and ease she unbuttoned the fall of his garment, eyeing him as he hurriedly moved to shuck everything off.
Her breath fell away. She’d heard plenty of coarse talk. She’d known his member was sizable—she’d felt it pressing her into that tree. But this—she hadn’t guessed. He stretched high and hard and long, the head of it pulsing just beneath his navel.